


The Fatal Softness in the Earth

by mutationalfalsetto



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, F/M, Self-Harm, Southern Reach AU, Violence, Weird Nature Stuff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:35:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6508825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mutationalfalsetto/pseuds/mutationalfalsetto
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>James called it PRISTINE WILDERNESS. She can’t say she disagrees.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> special thanks to [bazzystar](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bazzystar/pseuds/bazzystar) for letting me cry at you about this AU until I actually wrote it.

The door is ajar.

The door is ajar and the dark of the yard spills into the kitchen.        

The wind deposits raindrops onto the tile in a silent offering.

The door is ajar and the storm continues despite this small step into the out-of-the-ordinary.

She pads down the stairs, wary of something she can’t quite put her finger on. It’s getting late.

The door is ajar.

The door is ajar and his tone is too casual. The warmth of the sun doesn’t reach them here, not now, not with the words coming out of his mouth.

The door is ajar, and she’s angry. Irrationally. She shoves the cat out of her lap, stands, considers her husband. Wonders if she should shove him, too.

The door is ajar, and James hasn’t been home in two years.

 

* * *

 

James comes home.

He sits at her kitchen table—their kitchen table—and fiddles idly with the butter knife. His breakfast sits, untouched, on the table.

James does not come home.

The flash of metal in the glow of the afternoon light. The stillness of his body. The fluid way he moves, as if the atmosphere bends around him.

“Take the guest room,” she says.

His eyes follow her too closely and she feels trapped in the birdcage of her home. His eyes follow her too closely and what sits behind them is something else entirely. Primitive. A fly encased in amber. Something sinking.

“Take the guest room,” she says.

“Take the guest room,” he parrots, expressionless.

James comes home.

She sees him at the kitchen table with his hands wrapped around his favorite coffee mug. Fingers covering the pleasant black text. _Good morning, asshole_. The corners of his lips turn up, an approximation of a smile and she sees.

Something.

That makes her heart hammer in her chest because he’s _home_.

James doesn’t come home.

There’s a tension to him in spite of his stillness. A carefully-wound tightness just under the surface. The panels of his arm whirr. Reset. Slide forward. Slide back.

He watches her make breakfast. She half expects him to unhinge his jaw, swallow it whole. A snake in a convincing approximation of her husband.

“Take the guest bedroom.” His voice crackles, pops like fire. She sees the light of his words behind her eyes and wonders if she could kill him.

James comes home until he doesn’t. Until SHIELD knocks on their door.

Her door.

_Their_ door.

Early one morning before the sun rises.

The door is ajar and they’re coming into her kitchen.

The door is ajar and they’re asking where _he_ is.

“He’s—“ but the words freeze in her throat. _He_ isn’t anywhere. _He_ is wherever they sent him, wherever they sent _anyone_ involved in the expedition to map the region . The man upstairs, who holds James’ coffee cup, who eats breakfast at their.

Her.

_Their_ kitchen table. Is not James.

Because James didn’t come home. 

James doesn’t come home just like SHIELD doesn’t lead him quietly away. She almost wishes she had neighbors. Someone to watch from behind their curtains, imitating privacy while secretly bearing witness to whatever thing took up residence in her house for the better part of a week.

But, she thinks as she retreats inside, perhaps it’s better that she doesn’t have neighbors.

Her breath catches, her chest heaves.

The door is ajar.

James doesn’t come home. 

Natasha leaves for Area X.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I highly recommend reading the Southern Reach Trilogy by Jeff VanderMeer if you haven't, yet! You don't need it to understand any of this, but I just like yelling about it a lot.
> 
> The current update schedule is that I'll (hopefully) post one chapter a week, probably on Friday. I have a few right now and rather than throwing them at you all at once I just thought it would be nice to get into a routine. Comments are greatly appreciated (of course).


	2. where lies the strangling fruit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Biologist wakes. The Biologist breathes.

Natasha wakes up.

Colourless sludge in a bowl, sticking unattractively to her spoon before falling back with a soft _plop_. Coffee that leaves a sickly-sweet taste in her mouth.

Natasha trains.

Combat. Survival. A biologist by trade, she pours over the sparse records left behind by the biologists that came before her. She acquaints herself with their scrawl, the quick dashes across their t’s. The swoop of their l’s. _Hello, friends_ , she thinks as she sits down to thumb through another volume.

Natasha sleeps.

And her dreams are of open fields. Of babbling rivers winding lazily through a forest that seems to breathe with every step she takes. Of swaying reeds, salt heavy in the air. She dreams of scattered pages and a pulsing _glow_ that lights her up from the inside. When she wakes, it is with the rotting smell in her nostrils, a skittering sensation behind her ribs.

Natasha trains.

She avoids the volume with the rough, sloping capitals. The places where the paper tore from pressing too hard. The same hand that wrote grocery lists, that left notes for her when she came back from her classes. _IN THE LIBRARY :),_ he writes. _COFFEE FILTERS_ , he writes. _DON’T STEP ON ANY STARFISH_ , he writes.

She avoids and she avoids until the volume’s presence is a constant ache in her chest. She avoids until _EXPEDITION 12_ hovers over the landscape of her dreams. She avoids until she has exhausted all other volumes, and has no choice but to carry on.

 _PRISTINE WILDERNESS_ he writes. The smudge of a pen. Pages of his notes, his observations, his drawings. She breathes them in, the remnants of whatever her husband had been before he was

Before he was.

Natasha sleeps.

_WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT THAT CAME FROM_

They shave her head in the days before they depart, strands of red falling gracelessly to the floor. The grey sludge in the bowl. The rotting honey smell. _Plop_. She wants to laugh, but she can’t fathom why that is.

That night she is introduced to her team, a group of women made uniform with their shaved heads, their practical, green jumpsuits. When she is introduced, she is “The Biologist”.

_WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT THAT CAME FROM_

The Biologist dreams of a lighthouse. Of a vast ocean, something lurking just

The Biologist wakes.

The Biologist breathes.

* * *

 

They stand before the barrier between Area X and the rest of the world and the air shimmers.

They stand before the barrier and the Psychologist speaks to each in turn. Her hands are clasped behind her back, her every move screaming _authority_. _Leadership_.

The Biologist thinks of James, the stillness of his hands. The set of his shoulders. The Psychologist’s voice, her odd intonations, the weight of her words. She’s floating.

A rabbit runs across their path.

She thinks of the volumes, so many volumes, sitting at her little desk in the library. Of the Biologists before her, the weight of a pen on paper.

She thinks of the first expedition, the faces of the members as the news cameras followed them, disappearing bit by bit, behind the shimmering wall. She thinks of them and

there

is

a

p a u s e

her knees hit the ground and she’s retching, choking on the _something_ that’s crawled down to rest in her pharynx, something pressing down and down and _down_ until she’s sure she’ll choke with the weight of it and

A hand.

“Are you _okay_?” The Psychologist asks, and the Biologist’s eyes are streaming.

“ _Okay_?” and she opens her mouth

“ _O_

and the Biologist breathes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to [bazzystar!](http://archiveofourown.org/users/bazzystar/pseuds/bazzystar)
> 
> I know the name situation can be confusing. As the plot progresses you'll find out who's who, I promise. In the meantime, consider the list of characters and make your best guess! Comments are, as always, greatly appreciated.
> 
> p.s. feel free to follow me on [tumblr](http://passavantsridge.tumblr.com/) where I'm usually crying about Bucky Barnes in one form or another.


	3. that came from the hand of the sinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Area X will have them.

There are vines growing up around the barrel of a rifle left leaning against the side of the tent. The Biologist watches it warily, as if the plant will manipulate the weapon further. Point it. Pull the trigger.

James called it _PRISTINE WILDERNESS_. She can’t say she disagrees.

The sky is a clear blue; the landscape is open save for a forest some yards away. Somewhere, if she remembers correctly, there is a village. Empty, of course, but a village none-the-less.

The campsite was abandoned for only a few weeks, by the Biologist’s count. A few weeks and already the land has started to claim the items that were left by the expedition before her’s.

Light reflecting off metal fingers.

She wonders where the metal came from.

 

* * *

 

“—fucking around with the Russian mob ‘n I keep wondering if his shitty apartment is even worth it—“

The Surveyor is young. Impossibly young, considering the dangers of the expedition. She speaks animatedly, gesticulating wildly as she tells her story. With every movement, The Biologist catches a flash of purple. The polish on her fingernails.

The Biologist feels the land beneath her feet stutter. Wonders if the whole earth is holding its breath.

“—with a fuckton of _arrows_ , can you believe it?”

The Archaeologist, tall, probably blonde when she still had her hair, rolls her eyes. “Nobody uses arrows, anymore. C’mon.”

The Surveyor frowns. Picks absently at a fraying seam on her jumpsuit. There’s a look about her now

homesick

The Biologist thinks, then. If she went first instead of James. If she would look just like the Surveyor, all wide eyes and hurried words like the more she talks the less painful it is. She thinks, then, that maybe The Surveyor isn’t homesick at all.

“Yeah, well. Sometimes you have t’be a little old-fashioned.” The twist of the phrase doesn’t quite match her voice, the sound of someone else’s words coming from far away.

Maybe missing someone.

_James, looking exasperatedly at Natas--_

The Biologist

 _as she scratches at the head of the purring new addition to their home._ “Again?” _He asks, like the other doesn’t have him at her beck and call._ “Again?” _Like she doesn’t catch him in the early morning light, dangling little pieces of string in front of carefully tracking eyes. The occasional darting paw, lightning fast, to catch the prey that’s pulled from out in front of it at the_

_last_

_pos_ sible

second

_WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT THAT CAME FROM_

the laugh that follows.

“He sounds like a good guy.” It’s clumsy, the way she trips over her words, tongue sticking to the roof of her mouth even though she’s had what feels like an entire ocean’s worth of water.

A bird flies overhead.

The Biologist offers up what she hopes is a soft, understanding smile. 

The Surveyor tugs some more at the seam, watches a piece of the string unravel ( _the skittering sound of claws on the tile_ ). “Yeah, he was okay.”

 

* * *

 

The Psychologist counts.

_One_

_Two_

_Three_

_Four_

Bullets, guns, knives. SHIELD-issue, shiny and new. Nothing like the rifle leaning against her tent. The more the Biologist looks, the more she can see them as they will be.

Rusted, crumbling.

_WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT THAT CA_

Area X will have them.

She counts and she distributes, the motions a blur. Her voice a monotone that lulls the Biologist into that same slow, d r i f t i n g state. She closes her eyes, just for a minute. Feels the weight of the gun in her hand. Wonders when she’ll have to use it.

She is, after all, just a Biologist.

“We’ll start early tomorrow,” the Psychologist says. “Move out toward the forest, that’s where they left off.”

The Surveyor, armed with what looks like a crossbow, glances over her shoulder at the trees. Already setting boundaries. The Biologist wonders what it means that SHIELD sent a Surveyor, as if Area X hasn’t already laid the property lines itself.

It was, she thinks, pretty fucking specific.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I updated early for absolutely no reason except maybe this will give me time to write some more chapters. I'd love to hear what you think (esp if you have suggestions or feedback).


	4. I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Biologist doesn’t want permission.

The way they teach it in schools is so far removed from what actually happened that it’s laughable.

There were no news anchors clutching desperately at microphones as they bravely attempted to deliver their reports on the edges of a rapidly decaying village, there was no rumbling from beneath the soil. Parents rocked their screaming babies. Children stared idly at the clock, waiting for the bell. Disgruntled baristas slid orders across the countertop.

Quiet.

The way they teach it in schools is so far removed from what actually happened—

but if The Biologist is being honest, she isn’t entirely certain she trusts her own memory. Sequestered away as she was in the isolated fishing village, the occasional call to James on the crumbling pay phone in the local tavern. Notebooks full of her careful scrawl, her childish sketches of tide pools bursting with life (she always was a terrible artist).

When she finds out about the new territory, everything is already gone.

Or

* * *

 

The Biologist takes up the rear of the group. Her pack digs into her shoulders in a way that is both uncomfortable and offers her a feeling of security. For every five steps she takes, she feels something behind her taking four. Six. Five. A hitching breath. Eyelids fluttering closed.

The earth breathes.

The Surveyor glances back at her every now and again, tools in a bulky, cylindrical pack that bumps against her with every movement she makes. _Thud_. Five. _Thud thud_. Three.

Purple nail polish catches the sunlight.

“ _Yeah she’s probably a little mad at me.”_ The same hand creeping up as if to push back the hair that, days before, fell onto the tile. _Plop_. “ _It was a shitty thing to do, y’know, but_ ”

but.

The group is stopping. The Archeologist speaks, pointing to the map in the Surveyor’s hand, to the structure before them. Her voice comes at her as if through a fog. The Biologist shakes her head to clear it, but the action is only mildly successful.

The Psychologist, then. Arms crossed, shoulders back. Authority in every word she breathes and The Biologist’s mind clings to it, buries in her tone in a way that sends her reeling. “ _It’s UNIMPORTANT_ ,” she says. “ _UN_

_But_ , the Biologist thinks, looking at the way the ground rises, curves in a way that ground is not supposed to. _But_.

Calling it a tunnel seems disingenuous. If anything it is a tower, inverted so only the entrance is visible but clearly descending deep beneath the earth’s surface, if the stairs are anything to go by. The Biologist inches closer, hand itching to reach into her pack for her camera, just a few pictures…

“What are you doing?”

The Psychologist.

The Biologist glances at the tower, at the Psychologist. “The Archaeologist said it was a topographical anomaly,” she explains, gesturing at the tower in a way that makes the air around her still. A minute shudder from the trees. She wonders if she’s offended something bigger.

_WHERE LI_

_ES_

_THE_

“— better suited for the Surveyor, don’t you?” The Psychologist isn’t asking.

The Biologist doesn’t want permission.

They’re on the same page, after all.

She takes a step toward the tower, sure despite the feeling of the Psychologist’s eyes heavy on her back. The others watch, curious.

Without looking over her shoulder, she takes off her pack. Removes her camera. Grabs her flashlight. Her vials. Steps over the threshold.  
  


* * *

 

  
Whether James signed up or was scouted is a matter of contention between them. He swears he put his name down. Swears they came to campus, a group of them looking for The Best, and what was he if not completely qualified?

She sees the way he looks at the letter.

She sees the distracted way he stares at the television. 

Sometimes he tenses, and if he were an animal the Biologist wonders if she would see his ears twitch in response to a sound far out of her range. She wonders what he’s hearing. What he’s listening for.

The door is ajar when

The door is ajar when

The door

The tunnel

The _tower_

She’s two steps in and she smells it. The heavy sweetness on the air, rancid undertones that make her gag. Just like SHIELD. Just like

The door is

The walls are moist, made of stone that is not continuous with the earth she saw outside. Her light reflects off the surface and she

 

ascends.

 

The door

The door is ajar and it isn’t raining.

The door is ajar and he’s standing in their kitchen.

The door is ajar and she’s angry.

The door is

The tower

The stone rises above her in a high arch. If she were anywhere else she would raise her flashlight to investigate further, to see what plants hang from the ceiling. Something stills her hand and she lets out a shaky breath.

There’s writing that winds its way down ( _up,_ she thinks) the wall, following the stairs in a graceful spiral. The text is made up of individual fungi that seem to give off their own glow. The plants move invitingly, as if underwater.

A step closer.

The air is still, stale, and wet.

The Biologist reaches into the bag containing her vials, removes one carefully and positions it just beneath the text. A slight

_WHERE LIES THE STRANGLING FRUIT_

nudge

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have finals all next week so I'll try to get an update out (I hit the end of my pre-written chapters, so) but I can't promise anything.
> 
> Feedback is always welcome.


	5. to share with the worms that gather in the darkness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The words come easy and she considers again the weight with which the Psychologist speaks.

When the Biologist was younger she placed her hand on a hot stove.

_she wonders if she’s allowed to remember. If a place like Area X will sink its claws into her memories just as readily as it will tear into her name the moment it passes her lips_

she remembers the brief, bright moment of pain before the firing of a million neurons had her pulling her hand back, a startled yelp echoing in the empty kitchen. She remembers her mother’s voice, stern but compassionate as she held her hand under cool water, the words floating out into the air like clouds. Comforting in a way her own words could never be.

This is, she thinks with a vague sense of detachment, a bit like that.

Her back arches, muscles pulled taut as every part of her brain not currently consumed by the _burning fire burning oh god take it out take it outtakeitout_ tries to drag itself away. Pull herself out of her own skin if she has to just as long as she’s _away away away_ so far _away_ but

like thousands of tiny spiders the heat crawls up her body, rips through her outer layers like paper to nest in her lungs and she wonders distantly if she’s screaming.

_WHERE LIES_

_THE_

_S T R A N G L I N G_

She can feel her bones breaking with the weight of it, the brightness breaking her down piece by piece only to _rebuild_ and what Na—

what Натальия—

what N--

what the Biologist wants more than anything in that moment is for this to be just like the stove top, uncomplicated and quick and she’ll be damned if she lets herself wish for her mother in that moment, with the light skittering into the edges of her vision, angry and blinding. 

When the Biologist was younger she put her hand on a hot stove and felt 

_WHERE LIES_

she felt

 _bright_ bursting behind her eyes, drilling into her gums burrowing in her hair shot through with ash and blood and she’s sure she’s screaming now, words that are written in so many blossoms on the inside of a tower wall spiraling endlessly only to end in

what

the knees of her pants are soaked through with the damp from the tower steps and she feels the walls stutter in time with her own frantic breaths. Feels the brightness ebb. The burning dulling to a soft pulse in her bones. 

Her vials are broken on the stone, glass shards pressing into her hands. Into the floor of the mouth she’s sitting in because the tower is

after all 

* * *

She comes back and the Psychologist does not look at her.

She comes back and the Surveyor’s pack bumps lightly against her back as she walks, _thud thud thud_. Purple nail polish catching the light in a way that makes the Biologist’s heart hammer because the brightness

She comes back and the steps are only two behind her now, the breath of _something_ hot on the back of her neck as she forces herself to _keep looking ahead don’t turn around don’t look back_.

They come back to camp and the Psychologist is saying something under her breath, the words lost on the air that’s grown too heavy, too wet and so much like the air in the open mouth of the tower that she gags on it, wonders if she can purge her body of whatever fire is still clinging to the lining of her stomach.

They come back to camp and the Biologist barricades herself in her tent, scribbles furiously in her SHEILD-issued journal until her pen tears a hole in the paper. Scribbles until the light overwhelms her senses and she

and she

the vines grew up around the barrel of the gun, slim green fingers squeezing a trigger to fire a shot meant for someone else, someone

she thinks of the Psychologist and her hands behind her back. Thinks of the words with just the right amount of _weight_ , the way her lips move to accommodate the strange intonations that send her mind drifting just long enough so that

the gun

The Surveyor’s head appears in her tent, then, apprehension written in every movement she makes. It’s out of place on her, but the Biologist can’t explain why.

“We’re going to the village,” she says. The Biologist wonders who the _she_ is that’s waiting for her, wonders if _she_ expects anything other than the metal-armed _something_ that’s coming back in the Surveyor’s place.

_The way James’ hand catches the light, the door is aj_

“To get samples,” she says.

The Biologist’s lips turn up in what she hopes is the approximation of a smile. Her bones feel brittle, her skin feels like it’s stretched in too many directions at once and she wonders what the tower took from her. What it gave her in return, in addition to the pulsing glow.

“Give me five minutes.” The words are easy, nothing like the effort it takes for her to move her tongue to the correct place, to force herself to generate enough pressure to force her vocal folds into motion. The words come easy and she considers again the weight with which the Psychologist speaks. If the words come just as easily.

When she exits the tent the apprehension is palpable. It settles between the members of the expedition in a way that suggests something has changed. Is changing.

An eagle rests on the top of the Archaeologist’s tent. Digs its talons into the fabric. Watches the group with curious eyes.

 

* * *

 

The village is about a mile away from the beach, a perfect tourist attraction back before Area X set its boundaries.

The Biologist slips from house to house, pushing aside branches that jut through open windows and vines that hang like tapestries in front of doorways. Finds nothing but crumbling staircases and the occasional pieces of rusted metal, brambles twists around them in such a way that she wonders if the earth isn’t trying to absorb that, too.

And what of the people? 

The expeditions, in their earliest forms, were rescue missions. Doctors and EMTs picked off one by one until only the sign that SHIELD cared at all about the wellbeing of the Unfortunate Villagers was the Psychologist. One in every group.

She wonders what SHIELD said to the families. She wonders how many spouses woke up to the same creature sitting across from them at the dining room table and the overwhelming sense of _wrongness_ settling in their gut.

The Biologist enters a building that was probably a bar, back before Everything. Her eyes fall on the rusted taps, the pool table whose legs have long since collapsed. She imagines the artificial glow of the neon signs, advertising cheap beer, the promise of sports and good company.

If she looks out the window, she can see where grass gives way to sand.

The village is about a mile away from the beach and she can see a lighthouse, the end point in all of their explorations. None of the journals she read discussed the structure in detail, mentioning it in the detached style of someone who was interested only in the study of the living structures that surrounded them.

She thinks, then, of the vaulted ceilings in the tower. Of the gaping mouth that extends below the earth’s surface. The wet air that drifts over her face as if propelled by some great set of lungs and all she has to do to see them is keep 

going

down.

She thinks of the text on the walls, the careful writing that extends down down down written and re-written with such care that

_WHERE LIES_

_THE STRANGLING_

_FRUIT_

\--and if the lighthouse is cut from the same cloth.

The village is about a mile away from the beach and she can see a lighthouse.

The village is about a mile away from the beach and the Biologist slips away in the opposite direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finals are over, hopefully I can build up a decent backlog of chapters so this doesn't happen again. Feedback is appreciated (as always).


	6. and surround the world with the power of their lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The brightness presses out, kicks at her teeth.

By the time the Biologist reaches the tower, the sun is low in the sky and she’s beginning to doubt her choices. The closer she gets, the more she feels the footfalls behind her hesitating. She isn’t sure if she imagines the tension that fills the air at the mouth of the tower, isn’t sure if the clawing sensation in her throat is the brightness clamoring to get out or something else.

She checks her supplies ( _camera, vials, flashlight_ ), leaves the extraneous items and carefully slips a knife into her boot. No use going in unprotected, after all.

As she ( _descends_ ) ascends, she notes the movements of the walls, the damp quality of the floor beneath her feet. She wonders, if she is inside the mouth of some great creature, where the teeth are. If it chews or if it merely unhinges its jaw to swallow its prey whole. An enormous snake buried halfway beneath the earth.

Step by step, she follows the winding staircase.

 _Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the—_  

Glass does not crunch beneath her boot.

Any sign of the vials from her previous expedition have vanished. Perhaps cleared by a caretaker. She entertains the image of a flustered custodian, broom in hand, trying to sweep as much glass into a dustpan as he can before the tower wakes, swallows him up until he’s needed again.

A smile tugs at the corners of her lips. The brightness presses out, kicks at her teeth.

The soft _click_ of her camera, muffled by the moisture in the walls. She wonders who she’s trying to avoid by being so quiet, wonders if the others have retreated back to base camp or if they’re still poking around the ruins of a village that simply failed to evolve.

_that came from the hand of the sinner, I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead_

_click click_

_to share with the worms that gather in the darkness_

_click_

The text is unbroken, a spiral of careful script. The Biologist leans in, sees the faint glow of older lines, the same words repeated indefinitely. How often are the words rewritten?

_click_

She ascends. The brightness pushes at her cheeks, tugs at her skin. _If I open my mouth, will I be as bright as the words on the wall?_ She considers it, considers letting the light inside rejoin its siblings but something stops her.

Footsteps on the stairs.

_and surround the world with the power of their lives_

_click_

Footsteps moving in a slow shuffle. 

Up ( _down_?).

The Biologist prides herself on her ability to think rationally in most, if not all, situations. She prides herself on the objective way with which she conducts herself. It’s what made her a valuable asset in her line of work. The trait that made her a viable candidate for the expedition.

With the increasing volume of the footsteps echoing in her ears, she feels only sharp pangs of fear flickering to life in her chest like a million little matches.

_where lies the strangling fruit_

She feels frozen, one hand braced on the damp wall, the other clutching her camera to her chest like a shield. She thinks about the knife in her boot, wonders if it will prove effective when faced with the hand that wrote the words on the walls.

_I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead_

The Biologist flees.  
  


* * *

One of her favorite activities when she lived out in the isolated fishing village was to watch the stars. Without the absence of light pollution they are suspended in a sky so dark that the Biologist feels lost in it. Has to dig her feet into the soil to reminder herself that she is _here_.

Even when _here_ is Area X.

And here even the skies are different. The moon hangs low over the trees, illuminates the river that babbles softly even under the cover of darkness. A soft, almost blue glow that makes her feel like she’s walking through something intimate. Something sensual that is not intended for her consumption.

When the boundaries were set, was the sky taken in to consideration?

Was Area X so adamant in its conquest that it stole entire pieces of the sky for its own creation?

She wonders if, back at home, she could see the moon over the fields. She wonders if someone has fed her cats. If someone, now, is sitting at the kitchen table.

 _Metal against metal, “take the guest room_ ”

As she walks, she hears the howl rising up over the marsh. It is a phenomenon briefly touched upon in her readings back at SHIELD ( _grieving_ , _sorrowful_ , _wish someone would shut it up_ among other things) with no discovered cause.

It begins again, a new wave of mourning. The Biologist pauses, listens.

 _I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead_.

Curling text on a damp wall, metal fingers curved around gleaming utensils.

The howling continues. The Biologist considers joining in.

* * *

The Surveyor is taking first watch. She sits in front of the fire, using the flickering light to illuminate the pages of her notebook. Her hand moves swiftly, drawing boundaries or keeping a record of the expedition for future Surveyors. The Biologist considers sitting next to her, providing her with company in the face of the grief coming from the marsh.

Someone is waiting for her back home.

Someone expects her.

Someone

“Where the _fuck_ were you?”

The Psychologist is not poised. She is not powerful. She stands with her fists balled at her sides, her feet are shoved into shoes that should be on the other foot.

The light hisses. Pops in her chest.

_Where lies the strangling fruit_

“This was a _group_ endeavor. If you think I’m writing back to SHIELD to tell them their _Biologist_ compromised the expedition—“

There’s a bubble, stuck right behind her sternum. She wonders if she opened her mouth the bubble would burst. Considers it, just to see the aftermath. 

“ _Where in the fuck have you been?_ ”

She feels the answer dancing on the tip of her tongue. Her thoughts become unmoored, hanging by thin strings. Insufficient.

_I shall bring forth_

“You will _comply_ ”

Behind her, the Surveyor stiffens. There is a soft _thud_ as her pencil hits the earth.

Her thoughts 

drifting

one after the other.

“You will—“

The Psychologist stops, her expression suddenly fearful. Comprehending.

The Biologist bares her teeth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> :) I did not write a backlog of chapters because I am actually someone incapable of writing a multi-chapter fic (she says as she begins to write 2 completely different multi-chaptered fics plz save me from myself).


	7. while from the dimlit halls

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The number you have dialed has been disconnected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning**  
>  this chapter contains brief discussion of self-harm at the v v end, right after the "where lies the strangling fruit" line, i'm going to alter the tags to reflect that.

The bartender slides another bottle across the counter, an addition to an already impressive collection. She can’t be bothered to feign embarrassment. Doesn’t try to hide the relief as she takes another gulp. 

It’s a cozy establishment, sequestered away from the rest of the world. The televisions play the local sports network and the clientele oscillate between cheering and swearing at whatever teams they’ve decided to feature. At least some part of the outside world has to get in, she supposes.

Something to occupy the residents. 

“I have to make a phone call,” she says. The words feel heavy, dropping like coins from her lips. She wants to cup her hands, catch them where they fall because they don’t feel right. In the dim light, she can see the bartender raise an eyebrow. He’s got a bandage over the bridge of his nose. A split lip, like 

“It’s important,” she says. She lies. Because what’s so important here, on the edge of the world, with her beer bottles and her neon lights. There’s something missing, she thinks. 

The bartender nods, motions to a corner beyond the booths. Beyond the pool tables and the curious ears of the other patrons. He’s got callouses on his palms. His fingers.

She stands too steadily for all the beer bottles in front of her. Her “ _thanks_ ” falls, dead weight in front of her because the bartender can’t hear her, not really. The bartender can’t hear her because he

The smooth plastic of the phone in her hand. She taps her fingers on the cover of the phone book, dials the number she knows by heart. Waits for the ringing to end, for the person on the other end to pick up. Alerted by a ringtone that makes her laugh, hide her face.

She covers her eyes, shields them from the light.

_The number you have dialed has been disconnected_

_The number you_

_The number_

The _door_

The gaping maw of the tower, springing out of the earth like

She’s gripping the phone so tightly she expects the plastic to crumple beneath her fingers. A high-pitched whine in her ears.

High pitched like the _whrr_ of the metal arm, like the _creak_ of the hinges as the door opens, as the _sky opens_

And the words fall in a spiral, written by a preacher for a flock that fled long ago. _Where lies the strangling fruit_ down down down into the belly of the tower.

The light is something physical, now. Worming its way into her throat until she feels like she could swallow it whole. Like she could eat it raw, and devour the earth along with it.

When the Biologist wakes she considers the knife in her boot.  


* * *

 

  
The Archaeologist looks at her over the top of her metal coffee mug. A carefully raised eyebrow that the Biologist waves away, a joking smile. _It’s nothing_.

“You get lost last night?”

The Biologist deflates, tugs on the edges of cloth bound around her bicep. “Just ran into some wildlife, you know how it is.” Self-deprecation. Such a silly mistake. Trusting animals with human eyes.

“What kind of wildlife?” The Surveyor, sitting down hard on the earth. Her nail polish has almost entirely chipped away, with the exception of a small, jagged shape on her little finger. The Biologist feels a sort of ferocious victory at the sight, feels the brightness ( _weaker now_ , she thinks, _weaker now_ ) scrabble for purchase on her esophagus.

She sets down her cup. Examines her rations with disinterest. “I couldn’t see, it was so dark.”

The Archaeologist frowns. “I mean I’m not a _Biologist_ ,” she says it with a Capital B. The Biologist’s heart stutters in her chest. Pauses. Begins again. “But can’t you narrow it down? Feathers or fur? Claws or—“

“ _On your feet_.”

The Biologist has never been so relieved to hear the strange, weighted words of the Psychologist. The tugging at the back of her mind, the threat of becoming unmoored. She notes that the other two are already on their feet, hands clasped behind their backs in a perfect mirror of their leader.

She pulls herself to her feet, takes her time. Stands with her hands at her sides.

The look the Psychologist gives her falls somewhere between abject terror and rage. The Biologist stares right back, feels the skittering light in her chest. _I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead_.

“We’re setting out for the Lighthouse today,” she says.

“Uncharted territory,” she says. 

The Biologist thinks back to her maps, to her records. Hours spent bent over a table painstakingly reviewing page after page of notes. _PRISTINE WILDERNESS_ he writes. _New developments over the marsh_ she writes. _MOVING TO THE LIGHTHOUSE TODAY_ he scrawls. 

Not uncharted, she thinks.

 

* * *

 

They walk in silence that’s broken occasionally by the snap of a twig. The soft calls of birds overhead. 

The Psychologist walks at the front, purposeful steps stopping for no one despite the fact that they’ve been walking for what feels like hours. The Biologist wonders, not for the first time, if they’re being led in circles. If the entirety of Area X is not built in levels, loop after loop until they’re led to the very center of the earth.

She thinks about the words on the wall of the tower, tries to remember her experiences in church. Unsuccessful attempts at Sunday school. Easter sermons. Sitting on the very first pew at Christmas, a recorder clutched in her pudgy hands.

The words on the wall are not a recorder in a Christmas recital. They are not coloring pages in Sunday school or the hymnal resting on her knees. The words on the wall are a different sort of sermon.

 _Where lies the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead to share with the worms that gather_  

The meat of her bicep under the knife. The steady _slice_ and the scream of her bones.

The ebb of brightness, _away awayawayaway_. The subsequent weightlessness.

_the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this week i was saying "oh man i'll probably be done in like 4 more chapters" but i'm really made of lies and deceit so that's... that's gone.


	8. of other places forms that never were

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are no stars in Area X.

If there's one constant that the Biologist is sure of, it's that Area X breaks down everything within its borders. The rusting metal of the taps. The moss growing on the pool table in the back corner. The vines winding their way up the barrel of the gun.

_The bartender_

Area X is a utopia, in some sense of the word. Miles of nature undisturbed by human contact, separate ecosystems coexisting in an impossible way. If the Biologist were any less preoccupied, she might revel in the opportunity to truly observe the wildlife in this new habitat. Track the developments. So far from her little tidepools on the rocky shore. So far from the little fishing village.

_PRISTINE WILDERNESS_

This is not her utopia. She runs her hand through the reeds, slotting the individual blades like strands of hair through her fingers. A soothing gesture meant for something larger than herself. _I shall bring forth the seeds of the dead_.

If Area X is a utopia. If Area X is determined to keep everything within its boundaries _pristine_. The Biologist wonders what, then, is the purpose of the lighthouse.

The white of the tower glows in the sunlight, a beacon even when the bulb went out long ago. The Biologist wonders who it’s calling, whether it’s in warning or in welcome. The words on the tower wall, the careful curve of the letters to match the winding staircase. The sermon for an invisible audience, a preacher that nobody sees.

The door is

_ajar_

closed. The Psychologist does not move to open it. She stands with her arms at her sides, fingers twitching like she wants to reach for her gun and start shooting.

The Surveyor speaks first, adjusting her pack on her shoulder. “Are we gonna go inside or are we just looking?" 

“ _Respect_ your superiors,” the Psychologist snarls. The Surveyor’s back straightens so quickly that it looks almost painful. Her hands fall from the strap of her pack. The Archaeologist adjusts her posture minutely, but her gaze does not leave the lighthouse.

Her arm aches, a pulse separate from her own. If she lifted the bandage, would there be anything left of her work from that morning? Would the cloth be sticky with blood like the red stain suggested, or would she see a faint line. The brightness announces itself in whispers, nothing like the battle cry she experienced earlier in the day. Her gaze skitters over the lighthouse, falls somewhere on the horizon, where the sea meets the sky. Considers the location of Area X relative to the world around it.

When she was a child she was afraid of oceans. Something about the ebb and flow of the tide, the crawling waves over the sand. The creatures living in the dark with translucent skin and glowing bulbs on their bodies.

She imagines herself walking, in and in and _in_ until the water sweeps over her head. Until it’s miles above her and she’s sinking still. Down _down down_ _down_ until

_whereliesthestranglingfruit_

until she’s in the dark place. Until she feels the sharp drag of the fish with the see-through skin, the soft brush of something snake-like in the water. She wonders how long it would take for the fish to pick the flesh from her bones. If all that would be left was the brightness and the words in the tower.

When the Biologist was a child

 _if_ she ever was a child

she imagined getting on a boat and sailing until she reached the end of the earth.

“—base camp,” says the Psychologist.

“ _Nothing to see here_ ,” says the Psychologist. 

The Biologist wonders how long it would take her to walk to the point where the ocean meets the sky. If she would meet a wall when she found it.

 

* * *

 

There are no stars in the sky over Area X. There are no stars in Area X but the moon hangs over the trees, too close to be real.

She’s glowing so much, she doesn’t need the moon. 

With her pack over her shoulder, the Biologist slips out of her tent. The Archaeologist sits in front of the fire, disassembling and reassembling her gun. The soft _clink_ of the pieces calms the hammering in her chest, the quick bursts of air. She takes a few steps forward.

“Sit.”

It’s not the weighted words of the Psychologist. There’s nothing telling her she’ll regret it if she doesn’t.

The Biologist stands.

“I had a cat,” the Archaeologist says absently. _Click_.

The Biologist inclines her head. _Go on_ , she thinks. Urges herself to say. The light tugs on her larynx. Constricts until she wonders if she’ll suffocate standing here in front of the fire. 

“Stubborn fuck wouldn’t live with my neighbors,” the Archaeologist is saying. _Click-click-click_ pieces into place. She’s not looking. She doesn’t _see_

_the power of their_

_tiny nails clicking on the floor little pieces of string dangling between metal fingers between between between_

“—anyway. Feeder’s probably out by now.” There’s something in the Archaeologist’s voice. Something she knows but she can’t name. It’s letters on the kitchen table, it’s forgotten dates and hastily scribbled notes inside last-minute cards. It’s hidden report cards and _when are you leaving, James just fucking tell me I can handle it I’m not_ it’s

The Archaeologist laughs, something hollow and the Biologist _feels_. Hands across the table. News of her mother’s death. The door, open in the middle of the night.

“Sorry, Red,” the Archaeologist snaps the last piece of her firearm into its spot. Gives it a little pat. Doesn’t raise her head. “I’m being a little emotional. Fuckin’ cat.”

 _Red_. She thinks of her hair, a soft fuzz on her head now. Reeds through her fingers. Strands on the tile floor _plop plop plop_.

Area X will eat her alive.

The Biologist feels something like fear, then. For the cat locked in the Archaeologist’s apartment because it’s too stubborn to live with anyone else. For the cats that ran out the door when she opened it for the last time. A big, golden retriever with one eye owned by a man _by the bartender who_

 _Red_.

She’s looking. Really looking. The Biologist feels the light, little pinpricks inside her skin and she knows the fire hides it the best it can.

“I’m sorry,” she says at last, surprised the words don’t slip out in a shower of sparks.

The Archaeologist tilts her head, offers a faint smile in return. She doesn’t thank her, and the Biologist is grateful that she doesn’t have to open her mouth again. Clamps down on the secret that presses against the inside of her mouth, a sermon of her own.

 _the power of their lives_ and Area X will _feed off of it_

“I’m sorry,” she says again, turns, and wanders toward the marsh.

 

* * *

 

 

The Biologist follows their path as much as she can. She points her flashlight toward the ground ahead of her, looks for broken twigs and footprints despite the futility of the act. The ground squelches beneath her feet, sucks at her boots. There are no footprints here.

An owl peers curiously at her from the branches of a tree. She considers shining her light on it, to see if it will fly away. Considers looking it in the eyes to look for signs of recognition, of humanity. 

She drags her leg out of the mud, continues with the owl’s gaze on her back. 

There are no stars in Area X’s sky, but the moon bathes everything in a soft, blue glow. She remembers nights on the porch, looking at the trees and the property adjacent to theirs. She remembers the _creak_ of the porch swing under their combined weight, the soft brush of Myshka’s tail as she tried to squirm her way up between their bodies.

Her flashlight flickers on the path ahead of her.

There is no comfort here. 

Like clockwork, the howling begins. It’s begins as a low keening and crescendos into something beyond grief. The Biologist freezes, flashlight still pointed at the spot a few feet ahead. The howling continues, something continually mourning.

Something close.

She hits the button on her flashlight, throwing the area into darkness.

It begins again, so loud _so close so close soclose_ that she feels her teeth rattle.

The Biologist doesn’t wait for her eyes to adjust. Throws herself blindly in the direction of the camp, all thoughts of the sermon on the wall, the topographical anomaly, _the lighthouse I need to see—_ gone from her mind.

The run is not the frantic pace of someone trying to escape something they cannot see. It is slow, labored, as the mud sucks at her clothing and every step forward feels like a monumental achievement.

If the volume of the howling is any indication, her pursuer is not experiencing the same difficulty. The cycle begins again, the howl an unbroken note that does not belie the speed with which the creature is moving toward her. 

Her legs protest her insistence that they _move faster move please move_. The brightness tugs her back, curious. Deadly.

The fall comes as a surprise. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a little late, adjusting to clinic is kind of a nightmare. As of right now, I have no idea how many chapters are left? I'm thinking more than 4, but less than 12.


	9. and never could be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She and the tower have reached an agreement.

The paper is bright red with little stars. Shiny, like the silver bow on top. She plucks at the tendrils of ribbon. Pulls and watches it recoil like a spring. Her mother sits across the table, knee bouncing. Fingers tapping. Her mother is always moving.  
  
«Открывай это.»

There is an ice cream cake thawing on the counter behind her. The Biologist saw it when she opened the freezer looking for ice cubes.

Her mother always makes disapproving faces at her when she does this. «Плохо для ваших зубов,» she says.

«Так плохо,» The Biologist agrees, digs her teeth into the ice and bites down with a satisfying _crack_. There’s another cube in her tiny fist, little drops of water down her wrist onto the kitchen tile.

The present sits between them, the tiny stars catching the light from the window. The Biologist tugs on the ribbon again, watches it spring back into place. She doesn’t want to open it, would rather leave it on the table until the paper grows faded from the light.

«Н---------

На---------

_Biologist_

пожалуйста. мне нужно идти на работа.» Her mother nudges the present a little closer.

She does not save the paper. If she is going to open her gift she will do it properly, tearing the little stars into bits until all that’s left is a pile of debris. Later she will dismantle the bow, shove all of it into the bottom of the garbage can until it’s out of her thoughts.

It is a book. It is white with a single bird on the front. _Field Guide to Birds of North America_. She thinks of the world outside their tiny apartment, the birds that hop along the sidewalks, the birds that take her sandwiches when she and the neighbor girl have little picnics in the park.

There are not nearly enough birds in this city, she thinks. She sets the book on the table with a soft _thud_ , runs her finger over the cover again. There are not nearly enough birds in the city, but she will hurriedly thrust the book into her backpack on the way out the door when school starts. Will spend her recesses stalking around the playground, like the birds will nest on the blacktop, at the tops of the rusting swingsets.

“Thank you.”

The Biologist does not study birds. She envies their flight, the spread of their wings. Instead she attaches herself to the water, to creatures hidden in secret pools on rocky cliffs and little islands in the middle of the sea. There is something comforting about the gentle movements of sea anemones, the meandering crawl of starfish. They are stuck like she is stuck.

The Biologist does not study birds, but James does. Her first anniversary gift to him is shoved into his hands on her way out the door, a hastily wrapped package in shiny paper.

The way it catches the light. How his _arm_

She feels the sharp _pop_ of the tendons in her arm as she’s wrenched out of the muck. There’s a faint tearing sensation, and she wonders if this is where the arm came from. Little silver stars on shiny red paper.

It’s pulling and _pulling_ and the brightness is screaming under her skin. She wonders if she’s screaming, too. Can’t hear it over the howling in her ears, can’t tell through the mud in her mouth.

With her other arm she grasps blindly for something to anchor herself. Her fingers hit something hard, something solid and she holds on for all she’s worth. Digs her feet into the earth and yanks hard enough that for a moment she thinks it’s gone. Thinks of the metal fingers _tap tap tap_ on the tabletop. The blank stare, the parroted words.

James studies

James _studied_

birds.

He is not stuck like she is stuck, he is

But

she is

not

but

she

is

She’s stumbling again, sobbing with the effort of getting air into her lungs while trying to force her way through the marsh. Her arm is heavy at her side, each movement creating little bursts of light behind her eyes. Little, dying screams in her destroyed ears.

She does not hear the howling, but the vibrations still reach her. 

 _Пожалуйста_ , she thinks. The Biologist feels her lips moving, tastes brackish water on her tongue. 

 _Please_. 

She runs until the abrupt change in terrain sends her sprawling, somewhere beyond the marsh. The sun is not rising, the area still bathed in the cool blue light of the moon.

And there 

 _the strangling fruit that came from the hand of the sinner_  

Her chest heaves. There is a howling in her ears, so different from the grief-stricken cry of the creature in the marsh. It is high-pitched, panicked like she is panicked. Stuck like 

but she

_I shall bring_

She stares at the tower.

The tower stares back. 

A handful of _daysmonthsyears_ pass between them until a mutual agreement is reached. The Biologist pushes herself up off the ground, her arm kept close to her body. Already she feels the tingle of the skin mending itself, of tissue connecting and neural passages reforming. At this rate she'll be whole again before she returns to camp. 

The tower is, if possible, more imposing in the moonlight than it was in the full light of day. Still, she moves steadily toward the entrance. Her shoulders are back. She does not move cautiously. 

She and the tower have reached an agreement, after all. 

The first line of the sermon is familiar, something she has seen in her sleep. In her waking moments. Something that burns behind her eyelids and echoes in her ears.

( _and how is it that she can hear again so quickly, when the bartender_ )

Past the second line. Any guilt she feels at not paying full respects to the preacher and whatever entity they praise dwindles with each step. Her arm tingles. 

The tower’s breaths make the walls shudder, the little tendrils of the plants vibrating with each movement. They aren’t to blame for this, she thinks. They can’t help what they are.

_while from the dimlit halls of other places forms that never were and never could be writhe for the impatience of the few who_

Her fingers itch for her journal, sitting back at camp. She wants to write down the lines, wants to scratch them into the poles of her tent, into the wood of the buildings in the little village.

_never saw what could have been. In the black water with the sun shining at midnight, those fruit shall come ripe and in the darkness of that which is golden shall_

_s_

_p_

_l_

_i_

_t_

_open to reveal the revelation of the fatal softness in the earth_.

The Biologist’s breath catches, a soft _click_ as her jaw closes tight. She was not around when Area X set its boundaries. Was not aware except for the phone call she made to James in the little bar on the edge of the world.

Does the sermon predate the tower? Are there matching words in the lighthouse, written in the same familiar scrawl?

She takes a deep breath. Continues.

_The shadows of the abyss are like the petals of a monstrous flower that shall blossom within the skull and expand the mind beyond what any man can bear, but whether it decays under the earth or above on green fields, or out to see or in the very air, all shall come to revelation_

The footsteps again. On the stair, descending or ascending, she can’t tell. She has the sudden desire to press her back to the wall, to follow the steps _downdowndown_ until she reaches the end. Until she knows 

_and to revel, in the knowledge of the strangling fruit_

something about the writing

_and the hand of the sinner shall rejoice_

tugging at her memory

_for there is no sin in shadow or in light that the seeds of the dead cannot forgive_

the footsteps are growing softer. The Biologist steels herself against every instinct telling her to _run climb go_ ,

 

and

 

 

                 continues

 

 

 

                                                 down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still _really_ new to Russian so please let me know if I made any mistakes (besides how unnatural the conversation probs sounds)
> 
> Translations (in order):  
> a. open it  
> b. bad for your teeth  
> c. so bad  
> d. Please, I have to go to work  
> e. Please


	10. writhe for the impatience of the few who never saw

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the Biologist is where she needs to be.

_And there shall be in the planting in the shadows a grace and a mercy_

The Biologist moves quietly, her pace tempered by her need to read everything written on the wall. The words, the careful precision of each letter, is changing now. Frantic on top of frantic, rushed in a way that the earlier words were not rushed. She wonders what this means, if she is nearing the end of the preacher’s sermon. What it will mean when she reaches the final word.

_from which sHALL BLOSsom dark flowers, and their teeth SHALL DEVOUR AND SUSTAIN AND HERALD THE Passing of aN AGE_

When they graduate (“ _for the last time_ ”, she says. “ _maybe a phD_ ,” he says), they make a mutual decision to never live in the city again. They search, somewhere close enough that he can make it in to teach without spending hours in the car, and far enough away that the stars aren’t dimmed by the light from the buildings that are always glowing.

They move in gradually. Little pieces in a puzzle. Tables and chairs slotted close to one another until they have a kitchen. Dressers and a bed until they have a bedroom. Kittens to knock over the cups, to climb the curtains the Biologist’s mother gave them as a wedding present.

She thinks of them and her chest aches. She thinks of them and she thinks the brightness sounds a little like the howling creature in the marsh.

_That which dies shall still know LIFE IN DEATH FOR ALL THAT DECAYS IS NOT FORGOTTEN AND REANIMATED_

The footsteps have stopped, but the text continues. Here the little flowers are new, no more than little buds. The moving tendrils are no more than stumps that don’t _wave_ so much as they writhe. Trying to learn the movements before a new cycle begins. She wants to touch. Wants to transfer the energy beating at skull to the new life here on the walls.

_IT SHALL WALK THE WORLD IN THE BLISS OF NOT-KNOWING_

She doesn’t know what time it is. Whether the Psychologist is awake and looking for her rogue agent, or whether she’s been given up for dead. The thought of abandoning the Surveyor, her chipped purple polish, the woman waiting for her at home, makes her heart plummet. She has no worries about the Archaeologist, the confident way she assembles her weapons. The _click_ of the pieces into place. The vines are already snaking their way up and around the Archaeologist. She is right where she needs to be.

Just like the Biologist is where she needs to be.

There is a stretch completely void of text, no shadows that tell her what the sermon is. Whether this is where it ends. The stairs curve before her, the only indication that there is more beyond the corner. She runs her fingers along the wall, feels the shudder of the light, the tingle of mending injuries. Her ribs no longer ache.

She tastes blood in her mouth.

_AND THEN THERE SHALL BE A FIRE THAT KNOWS THE NAMING OF YOU_

The high-pitched shriek is rising in her ears again. Something like static in her head, making her drift in a way she hasn’t felt since the Psychologist’s words stopped having an effect on her. She reaches out a hand again, breath catching in her throat, brightness clawing its way up up up.

The tips of the Biologist’s fingers hover centimeters above the text, written and re-written. Notes in the margins of a textbook, study guide after study guide, grades on papers left on a kitchen table

_AND IN THE PRESENCE OF THE STRANGLING FRUIT_

She hears shuffling, feet or papers, she can’t tell through the howling in her head. Lets her hand drift away, a frightened animal coaxed by its owner.

_ITS DARK FLAME_

This is the final bend, but she does not know why she knows this. Does not know how she knows she’s reached the bottom ( _top_ ) of the tower except that her legs are shaking. Her arm is still flush against her side, fingernails digging into the fabric of her shirt. Clutching at skin like she’s afraid it will pull away from her. A fresh burst of blood in her mouth, the recoiling of the light. She’s bitten her tongue. 

The metallic taste, the sudden increase in saliva grounds her. The Biologist carries on despite the way her muscles tense, despite the growing emptiness in her stomach. 

_SHALL ACQUIRE_

Because

_EVERY PART_

she knows

_OF YOU_

she _knows_

 _THAT REMAINS_.

The staircase opens out into a small, circular room. Cozy except for the bars on the windows dug deep into the earth. Cozy except for the absence of natural light. The only illumination caused by the flickering of the torches mounted on the walls.

And there, the preacher.

Their back is to her, hand outstretched to open the door and the Biologist feels that same emptiness in her stomach, that bottomless pit and the growing sense of dread because she does not know what is beyond that door. She does not know how often the preacher has crossed and uncrossed that threshold, how often they travel into that beyond.

She thinks she makes a noise, something between a gasp and a soft “ _oh_ ”.

The preacher turns

_andthenthereshallbeafirethatknowsthenamingofyou_

and _oh_

_ANDINTHEPRESENCEOFTHESTRANGLINGFRUIT_

_oh_

She _knows_

she

_ITSDARKFLAMSHALLACQUIREEVERYPARTOFYOU_

screams

 _THATREMAINS  
_  

* * *

 

 

The camp is silent beyond the screaming in her head. There are small patches of moss growing on the tents, little vines snaking their way up over the logs in the fire pit. She does not hear the howling over the marsh, notes the lazy rising of the sun because Area X has taken many things but it has not taken _this_.

She feels hollowed out, her insides on display for everyone to see. The words in the tower are burned into her skin, and when she looks at her hands she’s surprised she doesn’t see the winding text, the careful arch of the cursive so different from 

but

she _knew_

she

_knows_

the Archaeologist is no longer on watch. It is her turn to sit close to the fire. Close to the ashes. She wonders, if she touches the logs, if they will light again. If the fire inside her is enough. 

If she could burn the whole of Area X down with just one touch. 

The sun rises lazily in the clear, blue sky and she remembers early mornings spent in bed. No exams to grade, no notes to take. Little, light kisses until the other opens their eyes. Tangled limbs and wandering hands until the desperate mewling of the cats is enough to rouse them from their sleepy ministrations. 

“ _Fucking cats_.”

A pillow tossed at a tousled head of hair.

“ _Like they give a shit. Make me some coffee while you’re up_.”

She runs her hands over the soft fuzz of new hair, wishes for long strands that she can tug and tug and _tug_ until everything makes sense again. She wants her long hair like she wants her house in the middle of nowhere, the bright stars in the sky without the mourning creature in the marsh. Like she wants lazy mornings and she wants her _name_ she wants her damn _name_.

The sun is high in the sky by the time she hears the heavy footfalls behind her, by the time she feels the arm hook around her throat.

The sun is high in the sky by the time the Psychologist comes for her, and she is ready. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i always feel like my updates look a lot longer in Word but then i post them here and i'm like "well, _okay_ ". Sorry again for the late update, i should probably just change my update schedule to "sometime over the weekend every week". i still have no idea how many chapters are left, i should probably figure that out.


	11. what could have been

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Annihilate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> note the tag changes because this chapter has **major violence** and **character death**.

In another life she does not lean into the embrace, does not react to the increasing pressure against her throat with a sigh of relief. In another life she does not feel the swelling of the light in her chest, the burst and pop of it behind her eyes and the roaring in her ears. In another life she hears more than the growl of the Psychologist, words meant to send her drifting, to incapacitate, and yet she does neither. In another life she fights because the light is not there to ensure she does not lose.

“You will _ANNIHILATE_ , you will—“

The voice hisses and pops like the light hisses and pops like the fire hisses and pops deep inside her. Hot breath hits her ear as the words grow strained, harsh with the effort of the push to end a life.

Did they teach her this at SHIELD? While the Biologist sat in the barber’s chair, was the Psychologist learning the feel of bones snapping beneath her fingers, the crush of cartilage in a person’s neck? The Biologist feels the light lapping at her heart, her bones. Imagines the Psychologist instead springing fully-formed into the world, made of violence and short phrases to bend and break.

The Psychologist grunts, her arms straining with the effort of immobilizing the Biologist. She feels the bulk of muscles against her throat, the Psychologist’s chest against her back as her diaphragm spasms, her lungs begin to ache.

 _This is it_ , she thinks, a moment of clarity as her head swims and spots dance at the edges of her vision. _This is it_. This is it and there is, above all else, a relief so great that she wants to cry with it. Wants to grab the Psychologist and thank her, for extinguishing the light that eats at her insides, for soothing the words that have burned themselves into her skin. She doesn’t have to remember the sermon in the tower, the figure writing again and again on the walls for an audience that wasn’t meant to hear, wasn’t meant to see

_That which dies shall still know LIFE IN DEATH_

And the light flares. The Biologist feels the prickle of tears, wants to sob with the unfairness of it.

 _ALL THAT DECAYS IS NOT FORGOTTEN AND REANIMATED_  

But she 

is

and she will be and

she leans in.

The Psychologist stumbles, surprised at the sudden weight against her chest. The Biologist takes her moment of distraction to push against the ground, sending them sprawling back. There is a screech beneath her, an ugly sound that grates at her already raw nerves.

She has only a handful of moments to decide. Considers turning for the marsh, the tower, the lighthouse. Considers walking until the water closes over her head, until she’s somewhere else entirely. There is a ringing in her ears, one that softens the _crunch_ of the Psychologist’s nose under her fist.

There is blood on her knuckles and the Psychologist is screaming now, the words spit through mouthfuls of blood as the Biologist kicks and kicks and _kicks_ until she’s sure she’s kicking at air, at nothing at all because it’s not fair it’s _not fair_ like the words in the tower weren’t fair like the preacher _like the preacher_ was 

like the _BLISS OF NOT-KNOWING_ was

Her head rocks back with the force of the Psychologist’s tackle, she hears rather than feels the sharp _thunk_ of her skull against the logs around the fire, feels the explosion in her skull and wonders how the light can bring her back from this. Hopes that it reaches its limit before it mends the blood pooling in her brain, the broken veins. The Psychologist’s fist slams into her jaw. When she spits, she sees teeth with the blood and the dirt.

The Biologist does not see her coming out from the tent, does not know she is there until she hears the loud “ _what the_ fuck _?”_ , until she sees the Psychologist spin on her heel, blood dripping from her nose, her mouth.

She does not know until the words burst in front of them, until the Archaeologist sways where she stands. The Archaeologist who has a cat at home. The Archaeologist who sat at the fire and called her “ _Red_ ” like they knew each other before. Like there was a before.

The Archaeologist growls low in her throat, stalks off toward the tent occupied by the Surveyor, who has yet to make an appearance. The Biologist’s heart pounds, her head throbbing with every pulse. The brightness ebbs and flows like the ocean and she wants nothing more than to remain where she is, to let the Psychologist kick at her until there’s nothing left. Until she’s indistinguishable from the dirt beneath their feet.

Area X will have all of them, after all. One way or another.

There is a lapse in her attention, a drifting somewhere between the campsite and the tower, locked on those spiral stairs staring at the sermon on the walls. She thinks of birthday cards, of little summaries in the margins of books and wedding invitations. She thinks of the careful, painstaking effort of writing and re-writing. Obsession or desperation or both. The Biologist thinks of the words on the wall, the little glowing spores, and the landing with the preacher. His careful movements. The door.

The door is

The door was

The Biologist comes back into herself just as the Psychologist’s wrist snaps beneath the heel of her boot. She hears the choked off scream, the guttural words forced between clenched teeth. There’s an edge of _something_ to them now, something beneath the surface. A small ring of brown around her irises but somehow all the Biologist can see is the whites of her eyes.

Her heel descends again, the words stutter.

In school, she was always complimented on her objective field notes, her ability to remove her feelings from her writing. This, the feeling of the damage beneath her feet, the gurgle of blood between the Psychologist’s lips, is nothing like her field notes. Is not going to be handed in to a professor, a university, a journal. Is not a concise report with citations on the final page. But there is the same sense of detachment, of curious observation. She watches her actions like she watches the starfish in the little tide pools. Jots down notes in her head. 

The Psychologist’s words filter in to her now, a sharp command 

“ _ANNIHILATE.”_

When the Biologist comes back into herself, she does not hear the Psychologist.  
  


* * *

 

  
When she enters the tent she is met with the barrel of a gun. The air feels thick, clings to her skin. She tastes copper, but can’t determine if it is hers or someone else’s. The thought alone makes her stomach lurch, the brightness scrabble against her bones in an effort to hold her together.

The Surveyor does not lower the gun, but eyes her critically over the barrel. The Archaeologist lays between them, but the Biologist doesn’t look to see the shot that put her down. The Archaeologist who called her “ _Red_ ” over the fire. The Archaeologist who had a cat at home.

“She attacked me.” The Surveyor’s voice is hard. Her hands don’t shake. The Biologist wonders again what happened to everyone else at SHIELD while she was going through her books, her training. Whether they trained them to be killers. Whether this was a necessary part of the expeditions.

She thinks back to the journals, the field notes. None of them talked about this. Nothing about the creature in the marsh sandwiched between sketches of wildlife, nothing about the eyes of the birds, the words that made them feel unmoored. Her skin crawls.

The Surveyor’s fingernails were purple when they started, purple like the aids behind the bartender’s ears. Like the bruises on her skin, like the

They aren’t now, broken with dirt caked underneath. Does the woman waiting for the Surveyor paint her nails? Do they paint them together? The Biologist frowns at the ache in her chest, the same feeling of _please just_ that she felt when the Psychologist first wrapped her arm around her throat and _squeezed_.

“I didn’t know what to do.” The Surveyor is defensive now, her body coiled tight like she’s waiting for the Biologist to attack. The Biologist feels the blood drying on her hands, on her clothing. The prickle of the brightness stitching together the veins to stop the flow of blood in her head. Her body is heavy, and it’s all she can do to stand in front of the Surveyor with the Archaeologist’s body like a barrier between them.

She does not look down.

“Okay,” she says. “Okay." 

The Surveyor lowers her gun an imperceptible amount, furrows her eyebrows. Her hair is growing back, black. Her nails used to be purple. There is someone waiting for her. The Biologist is floating, without the aid of the Psychologist’s words.

The first expedition, newscasters positioned at the very edge of the barrier between Area X and the rest of the world. The picture on the news before James turned off the television. The Lost Expedition.

Vines creeping up the barrel of a gun. Rusted taps in the village.

They were never lost.

The Biologist looks at the Surveyor. After a moment of consideration, she holds out her hand.

“Natasha.”

The Surveyor blinks. Lowers her gun and takes Natasha’s hand.

“Kate.”

 

* * *

 

Area X does not have seasons. Instead every morning dawns crisp and cool before bleeding into a pleasant day, blue skies with the occasional cloud. No rain. No thunder. Natasha feels the sun on her skin, removes the top of her SHIELD-issue uniform to reveal a white tank top underneath. It feels good. Rebellious.

They are quiet on their way to the shore, purposefully skirting around the clearing with the topographical anomaly. Avoiding the marsh. Natasha feels the pull of the writing on the wall, of the preacher beyond the door, and does not allow herself to look back.

Kate runs her hand through the reeds at the edge of the sand, her expression thoughtful. Natasha wonders if, like her, she is thinking of running her hand through someone’s hair. Lazy kisses in the morning. Doors open long after they should have closed.

The water is clear and blue, inviting in a way that Natasha does not want to consider while Kate is with her.

 _There will be time_ , she tells herself. The light pulsing in her head. _There will be time._

Sometimes she catches Kate staring at her, considering. Marking boundaries. Natasha wonders if the light is truly as obvious as she thinks it is, wonders if she glows even with the sun shining down on them.

The door to the lighthouse is not ajar, but it slides open easily when she pushes against it. The hinges do not squeak, a detail that gives her pause until Kate slips past her over the threshold.

The inside lacks the pristine stillness of the outside. Where the outside is all smooth lines and perfect curves, the inside is chaos. A chair is overturned against the far wall, hallways breaking off into additional rooms. Natasha sees a smudge on the wall that looks suspiciously like dried blood. There is a thin layer of dust on everything, all the signs of abandon without Area X's decay. 

“Natasha.” Kate’s voice is soft, as if she’s afraid of being heard in the empty structure. Habits left over from library etiquette, from silent lecture halls and movie theaters. Natasha follows Kate’s gaze to the stretch of floor leading up the steps.

The floor is clear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel a little weird about this chapter because I like Maria and Carol but this is also how the plot was always going to play out, idk. Sorry about not updating last week, plz heed my advice and never do grad school unless you absolutely have to.
> 
> Feel free to follow my [tumblr](http://mutational-falsetto.tumblr.com/) where I occasionally post things about the various AUs I have including those that I am writing on my phone during class, maybe.


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